The King's Daughter

by Suzanne Martel

  A son of the nobility, Simon seemed unable to conceive of the solitary existence of an outlaw’s granddaughter or of an orphan locked away in a cloister. Patiently Jeanne explained her background again and concluded, “I don’t know any family by that name. I lived a very sheltered existence. Nobody ever fought a duel over me.”

  Simon set to work again with a very busy look. His wife’s tongue was dangerously sharp lately.

  Limp and his young colleague shared the little hut by the water. Gansagonas returned to her rustic shelter and the children climbed up to their loft every evening. Existence resumed its course, as if the master’s brief stays were the real slices of life and all the rest, the long months of absence, were simply interludes of waiting.

  Jeanne asked Simon to build her an oven outside, since she had learned to make bread on one of her healing expeditions. Several of her “clients” had given her flour, more precious than gold.

  Monsieur de Rouville greeted the tales of Jeanne’s cures with a grain of salt. The image of the weak, resourceless woman was hard to shake off; his first marriage had conditioned him to believe in it.

  So one night he accompanied Jeanne, “just to protect her,” when she went off with two sinister-looking individuals. Their elderly father had had his leg crushed under a tree he was cutting down. They moved rapidly along the barely visible paths. Rouville, carrying Sister Bourgeoys’s sack, could not get over seeing his wife, wearing moccasins, her musket over her shoulder, keeping up that rapid pace mile after mile.

  The operation took place amidst a chorus of the victim’s yells and his aged wife’s wailings. As soon as Simon’s strength was no longer needed to hold down the patient, he rushed outside, pale and vomiting. Jeanne remembered her own reaction on board ship when she first tended an injured man; she went outside to offer Simon encouragement and give her verdict.

  “The poor old man won’t walk straight, but at least he’ll live.”

  Simon was angry at his own weakness.

  “I didn’t hesitate when I had to put Limp’s bones back in place. But seeing you sewing with your white thread in all that massacre turned my stomach. You’re so calm and reassuring. There’ve been plenty of times when I would have appreciated your care.”

  “Like when you got that cut on your back?”

  Was her innocent question going to lead him to confess about that beautiful long-haired Indian woman?

  Not at all suspicious, Simon nodded. “That time, among others. You would have had a gentler hand than Carrot-Top. He treated me by spreading gunpowder in the wound and burning it.”

  “Oh, and who repaired your shirt?”

  “Gansagonas did when I returned. Did you notice how she did it? She sews with her hair.”

  Now Jeanne was ashamed of her suspicions. After a few hours’ rest, the Rouvilles set out for home. Overflowing with gratitude, the injured man’s family insisted on giving them a present. To Simon’s great amusement, Jeanne asked the eldest boy, a blacksmith, to make her a door for her bread oven.

  In the meantime, before he brought her this much-deserved gift, the blacksmith gave her a pair of tongs to add to the rudimentary instruments in her medical bag.

  28

  THE SNOW STILL covered the ground, but the warm April sun was melting more of it every day.

  “It smells like spring,” said Limp. And with delight Jeanne discovered that short magical season in New France, when the air is light, and winter and summer wage open war before the amazed eyes of those who know how to watch for it.

  They tapped the maple trees, and the sap ran into the bark containers. Gansagonas and Jeanne boiled it for a long time on big fires tended by the men. When the liquid had evaporated in a scented steam, maple sugar remained. They would lay in a supply for the year.

  The procedures were interrupted from time to time by the children and even the coureurs de bois who begged for the pleasure of tasting the toffee poured onto the snow and rolled on sticks. Gansagonas frowned at the waste of the raw material.

  With a wooden spoon, Jeanne stirred the delicious mixture which would boil furiously until one-twentieth of its initial volume remained. Her cheeks were ablaze, her hair curled from the steam and the tip of her tongue stuck out in her concentration.

  Simon watched her indulgently, then consulted Nicolas in all seriousness.

  “Look at your mother standing over her cauldron. I wonder if she’s a witch or a fairy. What do you think?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Nicolas replied, “She’s a witch. They’re much more fun than fairies. They fly around on brooms like Mama’s. They can cast spells.”

  “If you’re talking about casting spells, you’re right. Your mother is a witch.”

  With April came the buds and the bustling activity of the birds building their nests. Kneading dough on the table, Jeanne listened nostalgically to the joyful songs.

  “They’re looking forward to a summer together, and we’re preparing for another separation.”

  Her hands white with precious flour, she was hoping the bread wouldn’t be as heavy this time as it was the first time. After that failure, at the sight of her disappointment and impatience at having gone to so much trouble for nothing, her teasing husband had declared sententiously, “An oven door doesn’t necessarily make good bread...and neither does the healer.”

  He took his leave diplomatically as she threw him a furious look followed by a vengeful remark. “Maybe your oven is defective.”

  That morning Simon was cutting wood as he whistled, heating the famous oven white-hot in readiness for baking. Suddenly jovial shouts and cries of welcome announced a visitor.

  “We would have to have a visitor right now,” thought Jeanne, striking the elastic dough with her fist. Two loaves of bread were finishing rising near the hearth.

  The door slammed noisily against the wall. Simon declared happily, “Jeanne, we have a guest.”

  A tall figure stopped on the threshold. Blue eyes met Jeanne’s and she stood stock-still, her breath taken away.

  Almost in spite of herself, she murmured, “Thierry. You’re Thierry de Villebrand.”

  Perplexed, the man stared at her lengthily. In his memory he saw a child’s face, then he, too, exclaimed, “It’s the foolish little bird from Troyes.”

  They examined each other, still incredulous, and warm smiles spread over their faces.

  A mocking voice intervened. “Is it necessary to introduce you?”

  Jeanne held out her right hand covered in flour, while with her left she instinctively gripped the gold medal hanging around her neck.

  De Preux, transfixed, kissed her outstretched hand. He turned to Simon. “You’ve married my foolish little bird with the mustard.”

  “Come now, be polite,” scolded Rouville, frowning. The cavalier attitude of his friend, always so courteous, offended him, and he was ready to defend his wife’s honour. Simon had been eager to introduce his new wife to his best friend. Now he had the feeling he was an intruder in this astonishing reunion.

  Thierry de Villebrand and Jeanne Chatel, their hands clasped, gazed into each other’s eyes without a word.

  “Aren’t you Count Villebrand?” Jeanne asked, baffled. “And what about your lovely chateau?”

  “My oldest brother inherited the title and the estate. Younger sons often go far away to seek their fortunes and drop names that are too cumbersome.”

  What would Anne, Geneviève and Marie say about this unexpected twist in their favourite story? Jeanne wondered, laughing. Caught up in the trap of her own legend, she asked, “What happened to your white horse?”

  “I replaced it with a bark canoe.”

  Very naturally, they sat down facing each other on either side of the table, the dough waiting before them.

  Thierry asked a question that lef
t Simon completely flabbergasted. “Do you still keep mustard in your pocket?”

  “How are your eyes?” replied Jeanne with a lack of logic that left her husband feeling lost.

  “I can’t stand anything with mustard in it. Do you still have a chateau in an oak tree?”

  Simon, his hands on his hips, exploded, “Enough. I’ve been listening to you two. You’re speaking my language but I can’t understand a thing you’re saying. Are you going to explain your code to me or should I go back and chop more wood?”

  His very limited patience was exhausted; he had had enough of being a stranger in his own house.

  “The oven!” cried Jeanne, her practical nature coming to the fore. “Don’t let it cool down. These loaves are ready to go in, and I’ll finish off the rest.”

  She put the baking sheet with the two rounds of dough into Simon’s hands and pushed him towards the door. He shot his friend an irritated glance and went out, grumbling, “I might as well be outside for all I’m contributing to the conversation.”

  They heard the oven door slam and his axe furiously attacking the poor innocent logs.

  Jeanne kneaded her dough energetically as she chatted with Thierry. Without their realizing it, the years spent thinking of each other had brought them closer together than the few hours they had actually shared.

  The evening meal found the Rouvilles together around the table. Good humour reigned once more, thanks to the children’s exuberant friendliness. Offering their guest a slice of bread that was still warm, the amateur baker remarked, “I’m returning the crust you gave me long ago.”

  They recounted the story of their youthful meetings to Simon. With her usual honesty, Jeanne told the fantastic tale she had spun. Her description of Thierry, as handsome as the statue of Saint Michael, still applied. The modest hero blushed, while his pitiless best friend roared with laughter.

  The desperate courage of the orphan who had fought for her freedom had sustained Thierry through many of his ventures. The medal he had retrieved and given to her with so much delicacy of feeling glimmered softly, the symbol of their bond.

  Simon watched the young, lively pair joking like childhood friends. He felt old, stern and taciturn. He was convinced that if de Preux had appeared at the church as planned the morning of their wedding, Jeanne would not have said “I do.” Besides, had she not balked at pronouncing the fateful syllable, even in the absence of her handsome knight?

  Monsieur de Rouville put on a preoccupied face to hide his distress. The preparations for his departure for Katarakoui demanded all his time. Too often he was forced to leave them alone together, two characters in a love story in which he had no part.

  On the third morning after Thierry’s arrival, the flotilla of canoes that belonged to the Fort Katarakoui builders stopped in front of the Rouville property.

  The Builder was cheered and teased. Everyone greeted Captain de Preux in a friendly way; obviously he was a well-known and respected figure. This intrepid explorer, companion to Cavalier de la Salle, was planning new expeditions that would take him away again for several years.

  He confided his ambitions to Jeanne. She shook her head.

  “It’s your way of finding the sailing ship of your youth. You’re going off in search of your dreams.”

  “And you, Jeanne, you’ve found your chateau in the forest of New France. I couldn’t wish for a more suitable companion for Simon. Until now he’s known more pain than joy in his life.”

  “So I understand,” said Jeanne, her face clouding over.

  Aimée’s pale ghost still floated between the couple. As for Simon, he was adding the more substantial one of Thierry on a white horse.

  But when the time for leaving came, that did not keep Monsieur de Rouville from clinging to his wife like a drowning man grasping a floating plank.

  The imprint of sadness was on Jeanne’s face. Taciturn, Simon was sure that the seductive captain’s departure was leaving her inconsolable, despite the happy farewells the two of them had exchanged.

  At the cold expression in his pale eyes, Jeanne said to herself, He still hasn’t forgiven me for not being his Aimée. Time doesn’t heal anything. Quite the opposite. He’ll never love me.

  Rouville raised his paddle and gave the signal to depart. Long after the last canoe had disappeared, snatches of the voyageurs’ song still hung in the air.

  Tu as le coeur à rire,

  Moi je l’ai-t-à pleurer.

  Lui y a longtemps que je t’aime,

  Jamais je ne t’oublierai.

  “Come, children, we’re going to get the ground ready to grow a garden. Nicolas will plant beans and Isabelle corn. We’ll have to build a fence to stop Miraud from trampling the plants.”

  Life went on. From the very moment Simon left, Jeanne’s period of waiting began, and she wanted to fill the time with a thousand different projects.

  29

  THE FIRST TENDER shoots broke through the ground in the garden. Jeanne and the children, smeared with bear grease to keep off the blackflies, were waging war against the weeds. The cat and Zeanne, side by side, were sharing the cradle set in the sun.

  Sitting at the foot of a tree, Gansagonas was fashioning a shirt and leggings for her mistress like those the coureurs de bois wore. Simon had brought back several deerskins, and Jeanne had requested this outfit to facilitate her comings and goings in the forest, on foot or on snowshoes. Having more than once travelled ten miles weighed down by a soaked skirt was enough to make her prefer comfort to convention.

  Suddenly Miraud, hackles raised, burst into fierce barking.

  “He smells a stranger,” Nicolas announced.

  Jeanne seized her musket leaning against the garden fence and ordered the children to run to the house. Regretting that Mathurin and Anonkade had gone off hunting, she was preparing to barricade herself inside when a call drowned out the dog’s furious barking.

  A long speech proclaimed in a female voice calmed Gansagonas, who was gathering up her work in haste. She announced, “Algonquins. They come see us.”

  These visits sometimes brought wandering bands into the little clearing. The Algonquins were freshly converted Christians who were often starving or ill. Charity dictated that a friendly welcome be given them. Besides, the one great principle of the colony had to be honoured. “You don’t refuse very much in New France.”

  This time, five emaciated women dressed in rags came towards the cabin. Gansagonas went to meet them and act as interpreter.

  Jeanne’s heart ached to see such misery. She went into the house and returned with biscuits, raisins and the remains of some smoked eel.

  The children came out of hiding, fascinated as always by the novelty of visitors. Nicolas, his wooden gun over his shoulder, put his hand on Miraud’s head. The dog’s constant growling made his body vibrate as if he were purring.

  Isabelle, her long blonde hair cascading to her shoulders, was holding onto Jeanne’s skirt and fiercely sucking her thumb. An Algonquin woman smiled broadly. She took hold of one of Isabelle’s golden curls, then let go of it again.

  In what could have been an expression of thanks, the emaciated women murmured a few soft words and went off into the forest, disappearing with the ease of people of their race. That night they would rejoin their nomadic band, and the next day they would continue their wanderings.

  Two days later Nicolas received permission to accompany Mathurin when he went to set his traps. These two good friends—the cripple and the little boy—took Miraud with them; soon he would be made into an excellent hunting dog. Anonkade was visiting his tribe for the summer. Gansagonas, her sack over her shoulder, went in search of ash tree bark from which she made poultices to treat Limp’s rheumatism.

  Jeanne took advantage of this welcome solitude to try an experiment that had been tempting her since
the first warm days. She wanted to bathe and swim in the river. The current wasn’t strong in front of the house, and the pure water presented an irresistible attraction.

  Dressed in their white cotton shirts, Isabelle and the king’s daughter slipped into the cool water, squealing with delight. A strong friendship bound them; for the little girl, this first dip in the river was a lovely sensation. Her adoptive mother washed her beautiful honey-coloured hair. Then, wrapping her snugly in the grey cape, she set her on the river bank where the sun would warm her. Zeanne was sleeping like a good doll in her gentle arms.

  Jeanne took her turn diving into the water, remembering the strokes she had practised in the pond in Troyes. In long, lazy movements, she slid away from the bank. She floated on her back, rinsing her loose hair, cradled by the song of the birds and the murmur of the current. She admired the purity of the sky and felt happy despite the memory of that phantom woman. After all, she was strong, vibrant and passionate.

  She turned towards the river bank and got her footing. The cape was spread out like a grey cloud, and Zeanne, abandoned, was lying on the sand. Isabelle had disappeared.

  Intrigued at first, then displeased, Jeanne called and looked for her, growing more and more frantic. After an hour’s search, Jeanne fired three shots, the distress signal that brought Gansagonas and the hunters hurrying back.

  Miraud growled, prowling around the cape. After inspecting the area, Mathurin concluded, “Someone has kidnapped the little one.”

  Nicolas burst into sobs. Neither the old hunter nor the Huron woman could find any clear tracks.

  Discouraged, Jeanne said, “It must be the Algonquin women we fed. One of them was admiring Isabelle. Where can we find them now?”

  Gansagonas, still showing no emotion despite the disappearance of the child she adored, spoke in her language. By now Jeanne could understand her very well.

  “Anonkade told me a group of nomads camps every summer east of here, near Sault aux Brochets. Perhaps those women are part of that group. I can go parley with them.”